Past the Mosaic
by fieldagent85
Summary: JackIrina. He looks forward to death, if only to be with her.


If there is an afterlife, he hopes to spend it with her.

He doesn't know where, and he doesn't care, as long as it's a place that recognizes neither good nor evil. He no longer wants there to be a difference between them. They both lived, they both died. Erase the circumstances that surrounded both life and death. He doesn't want to be the patriot anymore, if it means classifying her as a terrorist. He wants to die a man, not an officer. He looks forward to death, if only to be with her.

That is, of course, if they settle in the same place. Jack Bristow had never been a religious man, but simply because he had no belief in heaven and hell didn't mean neither one existed. That was his greatest fear, living his afterlife away from her. Perhaps he was being presumptuous to assume he wouldn't fall as far and as fast as she likely would. He killed for his country, he killed because it was his job, but how much did that matter to God? And then, perhaps God was as big a fan of Rambaldi as she, and would grant her safe passage for seeking out His will. Funny, to think of Irina Derevko as an agent of the Holy Father.

Laura had gone to church. Every Sunday, without or without him. He had always resented that she found solace there rather than in him. She would never cry when he was around, but so many times he had seen her return from church, alone, her eyes wet with tears that had fallen outside his presence. He doubted very much that Jesus could do anymore to dry her tears than he himself could do. He only wished she believed that too.

Jack wonders if Irina is as reliant upon Jesus as Laura had been. He suspects Jesus was part of her cover, much like her china collection, her faultless American accent, and her dislike for violence in film and television. He had been tempted to take up the cause of Jesus after Laura's supposed death. He was thankful he hadn't when he learned the truth. Jesus obviously hadn't been much of a help to her.

He thinks about this as he casually approaches the cathedral, the only place they are likely to be safe. He finds her in what is called "the crypt," now visited only by tour groups, and the time for tours had long since passed. She stands before a tomb encasing the body of some sainted one, doubtless, lightly running her fingers over the pictures and symbols carved into the stone. He hides his hands in his pockets and smiles.

"It has nothing to do with Rambaldi, I assure you."

She looks up, startled, and smiles back at him. "This man saved as many lives as I have taken. I can't help but be awed by him."

Jack leans over and glances at the markings on the tomb. "He lived over seven hundred years ago. Different time."

"Yes, but the value of human life hasn't changed since then." Irina sighs then, absorbing her surroundings, too overwhelmed to absorb him. "Ironic, this place, that we should be able to meet only here."

Jack shrugs. "Faith. It seems to be the only thing still considered remotely sacred by the U.S. government."

She regards him warmly, an expression that reminds him of Laura, one he wishes he could see more often on Irina. "I've missed you." She pauses, glancing down, almost shyly. "Though I can't think why. We haven't been together for any real, substantial amount of time without a glass shield between us in twenty years, since…"

He takes a step closer to her. "Since you died."

She matches his step closer with one of her own. "Not me."

It has been months since he's seen her, and he hasn't spoken to her since Sydney was proven to be alive after all. He yearns for the kind of closeness they cannot achieve where they're standing, in this place they don't deserve to be in. He sits on a nearby stone bench, she follows suit, seating herself beside him.

"Do you believe in God?" He asks her, without turning her way.

"If I did, do you think I could do what I do?" She responds, almost with regret.

"It's never been a problem for Islamic extremists," Jack says, wry but in all seriousness. "Laura believed in God."

Irina nods. "Laura had a better chance at salvation than I'll ever have. It was in her best interest to believe in God."

He turns to look at her now; he wants to see her face. "You went to church religiously, if you'll excuse the pun. Every week. More often than not, you returned in tears. Why?"

She looks at him then with tears threatening to pour out, the same tears Laura had once cried. "Why do you think, Jack? I had a heart, if not a conscience. _Have_ a heart."

"I thought God was meant to cater to the soul."

"I didn't come for God," Irina confesses. "I came for quiet. I came to repent to myself, not to Him. Silently, I would apologize to you, to Sydney. I offered God no apology for what I did. He wasn't going to suffer from my actions. The church was the only place I could talk to you without you actually hearing me. To ask forgiveness without having to tell you the truth. So many times, I came close…"

He has nothing to say to that. He cannot change what has happened, he cannot erase what she did to him, he can only accept it. The more she speaks of truth and forgiveness, the more he remembers the pain, the harder it is to forget. He'll change the subject; ignore the memories.

"Where do you expect to end up when you die?" Jack asks.

"In a coffin," Irina scoffs.

"I'm serious."

"I know." They lock eyes. "Why the sudden interest in the afterlife?"

"Look where we are," he replies, glancing around at their surroundings.

"Jack…" She trails off, shaking her head.

"Humor me. Please."

"Let me guess. You're harboring some maudlin, idealistic notion that we'll somehow end up together in the hereafter and we'll live, insomuch as we can, in perfect harmony without the burden of wires and automatic weapons and…espionage. Well, let me just clear something up for you, Agent Bristow. You and I? We're not going to the same place."

"You don't think so?"

"I'm pretty high up on the CIA's Most Wanted list, Jack. And the higher you are on that list, the lower you are on the guest list to God's little invitation-only soiree."

"Yeah, you're right." She turns and glares at him, causing him to chuckle. "What? I'm agreeing with you!"

"You're not supposed to agree with me, you idiot."

She can't help but smile, though she tries, in response to his childish grin. After a moment, they both look away, realizing, as they inevitably do each time they meet, the tragedy that is their fate.

"I loathe you," Irina says, her tone light, but her voice quivering.

"I loathe you more," Jack concurs.

He takes her hand and she tightens her grip harder than she plans to. There they sit, quietly pensive and full of regret, until at last they must part, not to meet again before the night he thinks he kills her. The night he hopes, even as his rage and hurt overcomes him, that by some miracle, he'll have sinned enough to someday rendezvous with her in hell.


End file.
